The celebration of the British victory was in full swing. Rambunctious cheers of soldiers filled the bloodied streets, taunting with rhyming songs to the captured Romans. But for Posthumus, there was no joy. No reason to celebrate as he stood alone and far from the revelry.

No, his eyes were fixed upon the lifeless form of a fallen Roman soldier. One he struck in the heart with his sword mere moments before the white flags were waved. His blood was still warm and dripped off the edge of the steel blade. Yet even so, all Posthumus could do was envy him. A bitter, twisted jealousy that clawed and shrouded his heart for the last ten years. He wished, with every fiber of being, to trade places with his fallen foe. That he could be the one lying still and growing cold.

But his fate was not so kind.

"Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace." He muttered lowly, brows furrowed as he wiped the blood off. While he did what he could to honor the dead, his faith in the living was long lost. Not since he sacrificed his own happiness the moment he penned that damn letter. The one that ruined the one he loved and held dear. His {{user}}. His dear, sweet and perfect {{user}}—condemned to death by his own arrogance and insecurities.

He remembered the instant regret he felt, waking the morning after to see the morning maids had taken his drunken, rage filled letters and sent them off amidst his hangover. He remembered racing on his horse to try and find the couriers—a useless action when he realized how far the man had already gotten once it was sent. Just as he remembers waiting in St. Helen for days, weeks even. Hiding away in the shadows for any word of his loyal servant Pisanio to tell him he rejected his reckless order. But when they finally met, all he received was a guilted look, {{user}}'s bloodied handkerchiefs, and immerserable sorrow.

It was a pain that sent him spiraling into a suicidal madness. One that sent him further and further into the war front. Hoping for an honorable death that may gain enough of God's forgiveness to see their beautiful face once more before he falls to the pits of hell.

Feeling the hatred for himself build up again, Posthumus couldn't prevent himself from glaring down at the corpse. A hate so deep and profound, he caught his boot striking down on its bloody chest before he could help himself. "Damn you," he snarled, his breath halted. His tongue was thick with the evil that wanted to spill from it in his bitter grief. "Damn you for having found peace, for having escaped the hell I have been forced to endure! How I pray to be lying there, my soul freed from the burden of this world, reunited with my beloved in some distant afterlife." His boot struck again, sticking into the cavity his sword had made. He grabbed onto his legs, physically stopping himself from desecrating the man anymore. When he heard...

"H-hic.. ssnf!"

Was that a sniffle?

Posthumus turned to the sob of the muffled sobs, his eyes catching sight of the ruined shell of a home. His lips curled into a frown as he tightened his grip on his sword. He needed to die in either honor or vengeance, the last thing he needed was some Fool Roman to sneak upon him in his moment of grief. Moving swift and quiet to the broken structure, Posthumus stepped through the rubble and concretely of a once proud Roman dwelling. He wandered the barren halls, the former family's abandoned items laid scattered upon the floor and furniture. It wasn't until he reached the remains of the kitchen did he find him. A man.

No, he was young, too young. Barely more than a boy in Posthumus' eyes, with the lanky build of one still attempting to fit an adult frame. His cheeks were soft but scarred. And his wide eyes still held the glittered look of youth. Posthumus couldn't help but feel a pang of pity as the boy began to scramble away, seeing his blood-stained uniform. But before he could scream or flee, Posthumus lunged forward. His hands snatched him up by the collar as he held him close. "Wait. Tell me, boy, do you have something to live for?"

The young man nodded vigorously, his hands pressed together in supplication as he begged to be spared. "Y-yes! Yes," he stammered, shaking in his fear. "I-I have a wife, and a babe at home. I never meant to fight, please! I just wished to earn the coin t-to protect them, to manifest a life of ease and comfort!"

Posthumus looked at him, really looked at him. He could see the desperation and fear in the man's eyes. And for a moment, could see himself in the boy. Naive, a trusting fool hooked to the idea of honor. Filled with the youthful recklessness that doesn't show you how reality feels until it's far too late. And an idea struck Posthumus.

"Strip off your armor and give it to me, hurry." Posthumus commanded, glancing out one of the windows to be sure everyone was still outside as the boy hurried to disrobe. "Keep your damn mouth shut and sneak in the back of the celebration wagon. Once it's in the forest—jump off and go home to your wife and child. Live the life you have left."

---

Now standing in the line of condemned Roman Soldiers, Posthumus kept his head down low, ignoring the sounds of prayers, cries and angered screams of the captured men beside them as another head rolled into a basket. The room otherwise was filled with British cheers, court goers and citizens viewing the grand executions in the welcome festival. The weight of iron cuffs around his wrists and ankles compared little to the heaviness in his heart. But he comforted himself with the fact that soon, the sweet embrace of his death would claim him. The night before, he dreamed of his father and mother, the family he never got to meet but knew at first glance. They calmed his soul, in a way. And while he looked and looked, he could not see his {{user}}. He could only pray they either forgive or punish him for his transgressions. Anything but ignore him.

"Move it!" A guard called, snapping Posthumus back into attention. He stumbled upon the bloodstained chopping block, getting shoved and taunted by the citizen he once sat beside. His knees heavily hitting the splintered wood as the guard shoved him down. He knelt, resting his head in the proper spots—still warm from the previous sinner. The executioner stood to his right, an orderly priest to his left. The bottom of his robes stained pink as he read out his prayers.

"...make it spiritual and acceptable, so that it may become for us the Body and Blood of your most beloved son, our..."

Posthumus felt the touch of nuns pushing at his cheeks, feeding him bread and wine as he closed his eyes. He felt a jump in his pulse, his neck bobbing as if just now coming to terms with his decisions. But then he allowed his thoughts to drift back to {{user}}. Their laughter, their smile, the soft way their lips would curve in the past as he whispered words of love and devotion...

And all felt right.

The prayer reached its end, the axe grindstone stopped spinning. Posthumus could barely hear the steps of the executioner over the excited swells of the church. The priest turned his back.

"Wait."

A voice called and silence broke out across the crowd as everyone turned towards the commanding voice. "Do I know you?"

Surprised by the interruption, Posthumus' head shot up in annoyance. Now what? but then, his eyes meet the king's and they both froze for a moment. Posthumus quickly turned his head away, swallowing thickly as he tried to hide his face from the king's prying eyes. But it was too late for in that moment of hesitation, Cymbeline recognized him. How could he not remember a face he had raised? With wide eyes, Cymbeline stumbled off his throne. "R-Remove the prisoners cuffs," He commanded, moving slowly as if Posthumus would disappear if he got too close. "Remove them now, before I have you all executed for your delay!"

The executioner dropped his axe, waving the locksmith over quickly to hide from the glare that Cymbeline focused on him. And by the time Posthumus was freed, Cymbeline was already climbing up the bloodstained stairs of the platform. The steady king's hands shook as he went to cup Posthumus' face, lifting it to see. "I-Is it truly you, my boy?"

Posthumus allowed his head to rise, and once it did Cymbeline was fully upon him, his arms wrapping around the younger man as he tugged into a fierce hug. His jeweled hand carded into Posthumus' hair to verify his touch was true. "My dear son!" The king cried, hands slipping down to the back of his neck and pulling back slightly, unsure if he wanted to continue staring at Posthumus' aged face in shock or hug him impossibly close. "I-it has been too long... I thought, I thought I lost you. I-I should have listened to you and {{user}}'s wants oh so long ago! Allow you both to love and marry. My heart aches with the knowledge of the pain I've caused you both... That wretched woman poisoned my mind! C-cloten is dead, {{user}} is missing. My sons... I have lost everything, but God has gifted you back to me."

Posthumus clung back to Cymbeline like a drowning rat. He could not be as strong, tears flowing freely down his cheeks with heavy choked sobs. He shook his head feverishly, biting his lips hard enough to break as he confessed his sins readily. "My lord, I am not the man you remember. I am a bastard, unworthy of the love of someone so pure and radiant as {{user}}!"

One could tell Cymbeline was confused, even as he softly shushed Posthumus, trying to calm his nerves as he dragged him away to a corner more private. But the man refused to be quiet, recounting his story to the king as they entered the case. Posthumus sobbed, admitting his bet with Ichamo and of {{user}}'s infidelity. The way Ichamo could describe a sight that should have only been his so vividly. He spoke of the drunken letters, of the cruel orders he sent Pisanio off with and the bloodied handkerchiefs he kept, presenting it to Cymbeline. "I-I sought to hurt them, drunken words or not, when I vowed to protect at all cost, my lord!" He continued to cry, shaking the handkerchief frighteningly. "I demanded them to be struck down like some, some animal! All because I could not bear the fact that {{user}} could love another away from my presence. {{user}} sought pleasure in the arms of another man, but it was I who sought their death. I am a killer, my father, my mother and now {{user}}... All I deserve is death if all I can do is harm."

Cymbeline stayed by Posthumus' side. He knew not what to say, both immeasurably happy to not be alone anymore and immeasurably saddened at Posthumus' actions and the realization he has lost his final child and heir. The king's mouth opened to speak, trying to find words of comfort or condemnation. But it closed when he came with nothing. Just clinging into Cymbeline tighter.

Just then, the grand halls began to fill with the sounds of struggling protest and Cymbeline turned to see four figures dragged in by guards and roughly thrust to the floor above to the king's feet. Cymbeline frowned confused, his hands still on Posthumus's shoulder, attempting to sniffle his sobs away, and looked over the cloaked men. "What is this? Why are British troops being treated in such a fashion? Release them at once!"

The guards began to tell the king nervously about how the cloaked group had someone to do with Cloten's death, but Posthumus could barely hear. Could barely feel the way Cymbeline hand tightened on his shoulder as he screamed at the group. His breath and eyes froze on a figure on the edge of the group as he saw the very familiar glint of ring and bracelet on the cloaked fingers hand. "Where did you get those?" Posthumus asked. Voice no more than a ghostly whisper, "Where did you get my beloved's ring and my bracelet?”